


A Fortunate Mistake

by TCRegan



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bran reflects on the death of Viscount Dumar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fortunate Mistake

In the wake of a tragedy, many things lay forgotten. The funeral was arranged, the Hawke man given the title 'Champion'. The nobles moved on. But for one person, it was impossible. Bran had served the Viscount's office for years. It was a position he'd worked toward, one he'd been immeasurably proud of. He delighted in the little things – fetching Dumar an extra quill, a certain book, and on the worst nights, a decanter of brandy. He idolized the man, perhaps bordering on reverence. Maybe it was ridiculous. He'd seen city guardsmen look at him, whisper behind their hands as he stood vigil outside Dumar's office. No doubt there were rumors, and Bran would have tried to quash them, but to deny them would be to add fuel to the fire.

Did he love Dumar? Perhaps in his own way. Platonically. The man was old enough to be his father, after all. He'd been jealous of Saemus – didn't that child know how difficult it was for his father? Didn't he realize how fortunate he was? Bran's own father hadn't had time for him, handling investments and affairs around the Free Marches. Bran understood. And now they were both dead, both Dumar and Saemus. Bran had been there for Dumar after Saemus's death, watched the man decline quickly over the next few days. He stopped eating, stopped drinking. He'd been a shadow of his former self when the Qunari attacked.

He'd been in the keep that day when the Arishok burst in. The horrific aftermath. He closed his eyes against the memory, gripping his glass of whatever the bartender had placed in front of him. No. He wouldn't think about it. Couldn't think about it. Marlowe's head rolling down the steps. How could he ever return? How could he maintain his position, serve another viscount? Life moved on after tragedy, but Bran wasn't sure he could.

And now he found himself here, in the Blooming Rose, surrounded by people who were laughing – laughing! – when Marlowe's body was in the ground, barely cold. He had half a mind to get to his feet and scream at them. To shame them. But even drunk as he was, that wasn't him. Controlled, calculating, careful. That was Bran. He was wound tightly, Marlowe used to tell him to relax. Not take things so seriously. Enjoy life; he was a young man who put too many responsibilities on his own shoulders. Besides, he thought miserably, he didn't think he could stand even if he wanted to.

"Another?" the bartender asked with a sigh.

Bran pushed his glass toward him and dropped some gold against the shiny polished wood top. He had no idea how many sovereign's worth of Antivan brandy he'd already quaffed. In the back of his mind, he realized the bartender could have been simply taking his coin, charging him triple. He didn't care.

"You should get yourself a girl," the bartender said, setting a full glass in front of him. "Beer and breasts, makes everything better."

Bran muttered something unintelligible and was glad when the bartender moved away. A delicate hand lay on the back of his bowed head, and he looked over with blurred vision. An elf. Of course the Blooming Rose would have plenty of elves. Despite the general bias toward the race, elves were beautiful creatures. Their wide, glassy eyes, and thin, lithe forms could attract anyone, man or woman. He blinked, trying to bring this one into focus. Fingernails scratched delicately at his scalp, down the nape of his neck, and he didn't pull away.

"You look like you could use some company."

The voice didn't quite fit, but Bran couldn't place why. It was deeper, maybe, than he expected. Didn't elves all have high, ethereal sounding voices? He couldn't remember. Miserably, he turned back to his glass, waving a hand.

"I'm not in the mood. Obviously."

The hand slid down, then around his shoulders, lips close to his ear. "Everyone's always in need of a friend, hm? Come on. Tell Serendipity all about it. You can even bring your drink."

He didn't fight as she pulled him from his stool, clutching his drink. It sloshed over the side, running down his fingers. He stumbled a bit, but she caught him, apparently stronger than she looked. The trip upstairs was a blur, and he only remembered falling onto a soft bed. His mug was gone, along with his shoes and shirt. The elf was on top of him, kissing him gently, doing wonderful things with her tongue against his ear.

Not entirely a stranger to sex, though his job came first, it had been months since he'd been in another's company. Sex was a means to an end, a way to remove a distraction from his position. There were too many things to worry about, too many events to organize. Schedules to write up, proposals to look over. But what did all of that mean now? Marlowe was dead. Saemus was dead. The city wouldn't likely appoint another viscount for weeks. And until then, he was out of a job. Did he even want to go back? Perhaps he should move out of Kirkwall, start over somewhere else. Maybe be a farmer. The thought made him laugh.

"Do you like that, precious?"

Bran turned his gaze on the elf, her perfectly pink lips parted ever so slightly. He took her by the back of the head and pulled her down for another kiss. Perhaps it was enough tonight, to get lost in the embrace of a stranger, even if she was a whore. She wouldn't judge him, wouldn't care that he was mourning the loss of a man no one else seemed to care about.

She moved down, taking his pants with her, and Bran shifted back, sitting up slightly. His head swam and he felt dizzy, hot. The room was warm, a large fire giving off too much heat. Something flowery hung in the air, an Orlesian perfume. He remembered an old girlfriend who used to wear it, bathe in it really. She'd left him for being too neglectful. He was young and stupid, and perhaps it was a mistake to have been so career-focused in his youth.

"Everything all right, sweet thing?"

Bran looked down, and on belatedly realized that she'd been stroking him. It felt… nice. But the alcohol had all but killed his libido. He felt sick, disgusted with himself. His emotions, so carefully kept in check usually, now came forth, bursting through like a tidal wave against a dam that had been eroding for months.

He started to cry.

Slim arms came up, around his shoulders, and he rested his head against Serendipity's chest. She stroked his cheek, his shoulder, his back, whispering quietly. He couldn't hear the words. He didn't care. She was someone real, someone to hold onto in the wake of this storm. When his mother died, he'd been young, too young to understand death. His father always away,leaving Bran to be raised by the servants. He never had many friends, just enough to be counted as socially acceptable. No one had ever been allowed too close.

Perhaps there were more than just platonic feelings toward Marlowe. Maybe a bit of hero worship. He had warned the viscount against the Qunari several times. They spoke at length, Bran fancying himself the only one to whom Marlowe would listen. At least on the really important decisions. Then of course, _he_ had to come sauntering into the office. Hawke, all tall and strong and bearded, wielding words the way he wielded a sword, with blunt fierceness. This was all his fault. If he'd just done his job, taken care of the problem, Marlowe would still be alive and Bran wouldn't be sobbing into the chest of a whore.

"Tell me what it is, sweetie."

"I can't. I can't. He's dead and I… I just… it's not fair."

It's not fair. It was a phrase he'd said only once in life, to his father. The man had just returned from Orlais, bearing tons of presents, having missed Bran's birthday. And he was leaving again the next day for Antiva. Politics and trade, he said. Bran, twelve years old and not quite out of his boyhood stage, had stamped his foot and declared those three words. His father laid out the harsh truth for him. Life was not fair. Life was unruly, unkind, and you had to fight for what you wanted. Fight and claw and steal. Backstab, charm, use what the Maker gave you to get ahead. Then he left. Bran hadn't seen him for six months after that.

Serendipity laid him down, and Bran went willingly, pressing a wet cheek to her thigh as she continued to touch and stroke his hair and back. Was this what it was like to have a lover? Someone who cared? Someone to hold him and calm him down when he was upset, to be there for him when things went wrong? He'd been always so focused on his work that the idea of family was foreign to him. His friends such as they were, getting married, having children, growing apart from him until there was no one left.

"Marlowe's dead. He didn't deserve to die."

There was a slight pause, a hesitation in the touch. "Many people who are dead didn't deserve to die. And many who are still alive that do, precious. That's the way the world is, and we have to trust that the Maker knows what He's doing."

Bran looked up at her. "Do you really believe that?" Did whores believe in the Maker? That He was there for them, looking out for them, when their source of income was to fuck men like him for coin.

"Of course, love."

He could hear it in her tone. She was lying, but he didn't care. She lied to make him feel better, and it worked. He settled back, sniffing, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. The alcohol combined with his emotional outburst exhausted him. Serendipity's fingernails at his back, the warmth of the room. He closed his eyes, and was blissfully asleep in minutes.

-

In the morning he awoke, a sharp pain shooting through his skull. It had been years since he'd gotten that drunk, and even more since he'd experienced such a hangover. He was tucked into the covers of an unfamiliar bed, wearing only his smalls. His clothing had been folded and placed on a chair, and on the bedside table there was a tall glass of water and a vial of some purple liquid. Between them, a piece of paper. He took it and squinted.

_Flower,_ (Was that referring to him?)

_I thought you might need this when you woke. Take the potion first, then all the water. Perhaps we can try again sometime. I'm usually here in the evenings, just ask after me. I can make you forget all your troubles._

_Take care, love, and remember that even the worst atrocities in this world will never out-shadow all the good it contains._

_Walk softly,_

_Serendipity_

The signature was large and loopy and took up half the page. Bran tried to blink away the cotton in his brain, tried to remember what happened last night. Did he sleep with this whore? Did whores usually leave notes like this to their customers? He took up the potion and swigged it back, gagging on the taste. It was easy to wash it down with the entire glass of water, trying desperately to rid himself of not only that, but the stale tinge of alcohol still on his tongue.

Head clearing, he stood on shaky legs and crossed the room. Though he supposed many people performed the walk of shame, wearing the same clothing from the night before, he was entirely unused to it. He dressed with shaking hands, examined himself in the mirror above the mantle. Maker, he looked like shit. Trying to straighten his hair, running his fingers through it, a piece of last night floated back to him. Serendipity's fingers at his scalp, scratching, comforting.

He frowned, and his reflection frowned back. Trying not to think too hard on what may have happened last night, he plucked the note from the nightstand and looked at it again. He held it out, about to drop it in the fireplace, but changed his mind. Folding it, he tucked it inside his doublet and crossed the room, peering out. The sounds of voices and clinking of knives below gave him pause.

"Oh good morning, messere."

He turned. It was an elf, but not the one he remembered from last night. This one was no less beautiful, her long blond hair falling past her shoulders, the tattoos on her face signifying her as Dalish. Ex-Dalish, now that she was in the city. She curtsied ever so cutely in her pink skirts, smiling up at him.

"Did you need anything this morning before you take your leave?"

"Uh."

Was it customary to ask for things before leaving a whorehouse? 

"The others are downstairs having a spot of bacon and eggs to break their fast. There's fresh coffee too," she said, taking pity on his obvious confusion.

"Thank you, no."

It would only add to his discomfort. What would they talk about? How good the girls were here? The latest sporting event? The trade markets? He thanked her, fishing a coin from his pocket which she took gratefully, and stole down a side staircase and through the kitchens. Servants and cooks looked up, but said nothing as he took his leave. The side door emptied into an alley. It took him a moment to get his bearings, but soon he had made his way back to his own estate.

Once safely inside, he locked the door, pressing his forehead against the thick wood, feeling a burning shame in his chest, and a deep pang of loss. He pulled the paper from his pocket and looked down at it. The signature looked so beautiful, so inviting. He ran his thumb along the dried ink, and a shaky, mirthless laugh escaped his lips.

Serendipity.

A fortunate mistake.

He dropped the letter on the front hall table and made his way upstairs for a bath. Perhaps he would return tonight.

Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> One of my earlier works I thought I'd share. Every time I play the game I go back and forth from loving Bran to hating his bitchiness. As a character, I adore him though and I think he deserves a bit of closure, especially the way he speaks about the Dumars.


End file.
